You Have to Leave
by alxxiis
Summary: HEAVY SPOILER FOR "WHERE IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE"- DO NOT READ IF YOU'D RATHER WAIT UNTIL THE SPOILER IS REVEALED IN THE CHAPTER FIC! Brynjolf and Anya are on their way to complete a job but are attacked by bandits, and Anya's secret is revealed.


"You have to leave here," she said, her voice straining. "Right now."

"What's the matter with you?" he asked, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand from her face.

The white of her sclera was gone, replaced by black, surrounding her icy blue irises. And the skin around her eyes looked bruised, purple and marred with capillaries. The already-alabaster skin seemed even paler, even against her white hair that was now loose and free. She bared her teeth and hissed; canines lengthened and came to inhumanely sharp points.

Brynjolf released her and jumped back, eyes wide and mouth gaping, but he didn't have a chance to stare long.

Anya's fingers wrapped around the collar of his armor and pulled him down to her eye level.

"Go."

She yanked him around her and threw him backward, well away from her prey. His body rolled and slid across the ground, but her focus was elsewhere. Her eerie eyes bounced to each of the bandits in front of her before falling on the blood surrounding the dead bandit, Anya's knife protruding from his forehead.

The bandits lifted their weapons, but fear spilled from their pores and mixed with the metallic tang hanging in the air. Anya hummed, a dangerous smile playing on her lips.

She surged forward at a blinding speed and plunged her claw-like fingers into the neck of the bandit closest to her. He let out a gurgled scream while the others stood frozen. Anya looked at the one to her left as she pulled her hand out and ran her tongue along her palm. They gathered themselves and attempted to rush her.

Tossing the body aside, Anya remained and let the bandits close in. Her body bent and contorted to avoid their weapons, practically dancing in place. Her hand shot out and wrapped around a blade that came close to her neck and twisted it out of the bandit's grasp; still holding the blade, she swung it around her head and lodged the cross-guard into his head.

With a laugh, Anya continued slicing and gliding through the air, her body a weapon.

A single bandit remained, and as Anya's eyes landed on him, he threw his weapon on the ground and fell to his knees.

She approached him, taking her steps slow.

"Please!" he cried. "I don't want to die! Let me go!"

Anya smiled at him, showing off her teeth and pointedly pressing her tongue against one of her fangs.

"Oh, no no no no," she said.

She bent forward and drove her nails into his side, holding him in place, while the other hand weaved into his hair and jerked his head to the left. Heart racing, practically bursting from his chest and calling to her like a siren song. With little effort, her fangs pierced his skin, freeing the blood that so desperately pulsed through his neck.

Warm and sweet, she felt her feral nature cry out in joy as she drained his body. There was no sustenance left, but she wasn't sated. It'd been too long since she'd allowed her vampirism free to frenzy.

Another heartbeat sounded, and her stare shot to the man sitting on the ground. In a mere moment, she was on him, straddling his waist and holding him down. Hand around his neck, thumb pressing up into his chin. Her eyes met his, wide and petrified green; his mouth opened and closed repeatedly as if trying to release a silent plea.

Anya grinned; his pulse fluttered under her hand as she leaned down and brushed her fangs across the skin over his artery. Taking a deep breath through her nose: iron, sweat, clove, and citrus—she paused.

"Anya," the man whispered, breath shaky.

The vampire pulled back, eyes bouncing to each of his. Predatory demeanor replaced by one of confusion.

"Anya," he repeated, stronger this time.

Her hand fell from his neck and her body straightened.

"Bryn?" she said.

The black filling her sclera moved like smoke and dissipated, leaving her eyes their familiar cold blue and white.

Anya leaped off him and staggered, tripping on one of the bodies and falling. She tried to crawl backward, but her hands couldn't garner any traction. Blood soaked her palms and fingers; sticky yet slick, normally tantalizing, but meeting Brynjolf's gaze made her stomach lurch.

Tearing her eyes away, she looked down at her hands and shook her head. Ophira would've been so disappointed in her. She'd engrained it in Anya to never allow the thirst to build to an uncontrollable level, especially when on a job, but Anya had gotten sloppy. So focused on the guild and hunting down Ophira's killer, she was lost to her own nature and needs.

"I didn't…" she mumbled. "I didn't want you to—fuck."

She heard shuffling and a shadow moved in front of her, carrying with it the scent of clove and citrus. His boots were all she could look at, though she could feel his eyes on her.

She'd never been ashamed of what she was or of the things she'd done, but to have come so close to…

"Leave," she ordered, though her voice was quiet.

He remained, silent and looming a few moments before kneeling.

"You're…" He trailed off. The man of honeyed words at a loss.

Brynjolf reached out, his hand hovering a second before taking her blood-covered chin and tilting her head back to look at him.

"Come on," he said, offering an uncharacteristically timid smile. "We have a job to finish."


End file.
